


Wassailing

by sallysorrell



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 25 Days of Fic, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 17,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spend the 25 days of Christmas with the Enterprise crew.  Watch them exchange gifts, study cutesy earth customs, and be the best friends in the universe.  Daily updates, inspired by different Christmas carols.  Mentions of plenty of characters and pairings.  Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jabbierwocky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabbierwocky/gifts).



Scanners hummed peacefully throughout the Bridge.  The stars were equally carefree, as the Enterprise waded through them.

The captain leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, skimming the latest correspondence from Starfleet Command.  His yeoman oversaw the process, offering a writing device and a strip of possible responses. 

He took the pen and signed the form, before swiveling to one side.

“Lieutenant,” he called.

As Sulu began his answer, he realized the captain was facing the empty chair of Lieutenant _Uhura_.  He returned to his navigations, while Kirk passed the document to Rand.

“The Lieutenant’s Regular Pass,” explained Spock, hardly moving his eyes from his work.  Captain Kirk nodded.

“Yeoman,” he began, righting his chair, “take down a message for Lieutenant Uhura, to be broadcast to all crewmen at her… earliest convenience.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He would not pause; Uhura was always capable of polishing his messages, and cutting out everything unnecessary; the gold ribbon on his uniform, but in dashes.

“Attention all personnel: we have been granted an additional day of shore leave, based on your excelling performance.  We are currently on course for the outpost _Aristotle IX_ , and will be taking our leave there.  I have been ordered _not_ to stop the ship, for any reason, until we have arrived. Current estimates show us being…”

He glanced to Sulu, who smiled as he filled in the gaps:

“Twenty-five days out, Sir, if we maintain sublight speed.  Smooth sailing, Captain.”

Yeoman Rand nodded, waiting quietly for the Captain to proceed:

“Based on our most recent correspondence with Earth, this has us arriving for leave on Christmas Day.  Starfleet’s gift to us, it seems, for another successful year…”

Kirk outlined possible festivities, alternative celebrations, and left a final request for those familiar with ancient Earth history to help solidify their plans.  Rand set down the tablet, leaning it carefully on the armrest.

“I’ll stop by her cabin right away, Sir.”

“Thank you, Yeoman,” he nudged the tablet in her direction, “She’d like that.”

She stepped eagerly toward the turbo-lift, tucking the pen behind her ear.  As the doors shut, she could hear the captain yawning, and remarking about his upcoming night-shift.

Despite the constant darkness, the crew had learned to operate within its own pattern of work and rest.  As she maintained the captain’s schedule, she knew he was already late for taking his time off.  Typical.  She also knew it was unusual for Spock and the captain to have overlapping break periods.  However, because they were not scheduled to make additional stops, this did not concern her. 

What occupied most of her mind, in the short walk from the lift to the assigned cabin, was what sort of radiant face Uhura would exchange for the news.  She was not disappointed.

“On Christmas day?” she grinned, “That’s _wonderful_. _”_

The yeoman watched as Uhura’s eyes, crinkled from her smile, scanned over the document.

“I can announce it now,” Uhura said, inspired.  She was already at her desk; her fingers crawled toward the communication screen.  Rand felt somewhat guilty, in becoming a trap.

“There’s no hurry,” she said, relaxing her hand over Uhura’s, “It _is_ your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Uhura nodded.  It was, in fact, her first and only on the journey so far.

Rand returned the smile, and chose to sit on the table.  Uhura scooted back in her chair, to leave room for Rand to fold her legs.  She tapped her fingers against the top of her boots, as she gazed down at the Lieutenant.

“Y’know how hard you work, Uhura?”

By now, the Lieutenant’s hands were resting amicably on the table, far away from the communicator.  Rand reached for the tablet, reviewing the good news.

“It’s been completely quiet up there,” she promised, tossing a hand toward the Bridge, “All night long.  Not a word.”

“We haven’t passed any other ships?”

Rand shrugged.

“None that wanted to talk to us.” She turned the pen over between her fingers, while Uhura reached to unfasten her earrings, “Must be ‘cause you weren’t there.”

Uhura’s smile returned home, brighter than before.  The two gemstones rolled atop the desk, as far as they could reach.

“Did Captain Kirk need anything else from me?”

The rope around Uhura’s heart was that of duty.  Rand acknowledged it with a gentle, mirroring sort of nod.

“Nah.  He’s off for the night, just like you and me.”

Uhura glanced approvingly at the screen, and imaged her captain was doing the same.

“Nice and quiet,” Rand observed, sliding gracefully from the table.  She studied herself in the mirror, facing Uhura’s bed.  Her eyes danced briefly over the bed’s reflection, counting frayed threads and the creases and contours of Uhura’s usual position, “Peaceful.”

“Good for a day off,” Uhura agreed, watching her.

“Or a night.”

Uhura relaxed in her chair, setting both arms on the desktop.  She rested her face atop her hands.

“You’re welcome to stay,” she said, knowing they had already somehow agreed on this.  Yeoman Rand turned to face the door, offering to ‘hunt down’ an extra bed from Sickbay.

The Lieutenant’s laughter was sweet and light, as she declined.

She switched off the screen completely, draining the room of all noises.  Uhura had to pause her own breathing, in order to admire the Yeoman’s, as she scooped up the blanket and nestled beneath it.

Each offered one final glance to the light, creeping in beneath the cabin door, before settling down to sleep.  They were wrapped up in the silence, but neither had ever felt such comfort.

_All is calm,  
All is bright._


	2. Of the Father’s Heart Begotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock-centric, with Amanda/Sarek if you squint.

Spock awoke slowly the next morning, aided by the lights he installed to imitate those of his home-planet. 

Immediately, his focus was recalled to a stack of research tapes, teetering in front of the communication screen on his desk.  He was assigned to scanning them for information on Christmas traditions, despite his insistence that Doctor McCoy was a better resource.  Kirk had laughed, shoving him towards the Records Library, as they both left the Bridge in command of the evening crew.  It was rare for their breaks to line up, as Spock did not require as many, and always hated to take them.

He was determined to return to the Bridge that morning before the Captain was even awake.  And he would bring all the promised information.

Spock inputted the first of the tapes, eager to read them faster than the computer’s voice could. 

To himself, he considered the ancient dependency on paper.  Although in some cases it had monetary value, most of the things he read involved the ritualistic taping and tearing of it. 

As he neared the end of the data gathered about paper, the computer offered a moving image.  He enlarged this, intently focused on the two smiling figures.

“Of course,” he said, “ _Cards_.”

The pictures continued flickering past, begging him to open the desk-drawer.  The logical presentation, he thought, was the request for a match.  The picture needed its complements.

He set down a swatch of thick paper, made to mimic the style used on Earth.  It was made on Vulcan, printed with films of fine metal.

This image did not move.  His mother specifically requested for it to be stationary.  His father, as he recalled, offered no protest.  Vulcan accepted peaceful traditions, however illogical.

Amanda’s face was there, etched in warm hues of gold and copper.  Her smile was delicate, and mostly covered by her best Vulcan salute.  Sarek stood behind her, copying the gesture but not the expression.

Spock turned the paper over, to read the gilded symbols his mother insisted on writing with her own hand.  He shook off the sentiment; the words remained dormant in his memory, and he would call them from there.  The card was returned to the table, with the image facing upward.  The metal skidded and squeaked against the desktop.

He recalled the exact _moment_ he received it, and how it released all the feelings he otherwise kept in cages.  Before it had arrived, shoved through the slot in the door of Academy dormitory, he had no knowledge of what his peers called ‘homesickness.’  Once peeling away the wrapping, seeing a familiar picture, and reading the overly emotional words of his mother, Spock wanted nothing more than to go home.

The communication screen flashed, recalling his attention.  The captain would be returning to the Bridge, for the beginning of the new day’s shift.

“Very well,” he said to himself, cutting down every new thought that grew from the memory of his mother’s _card_.

He remained quiet until reaching the Bridge.  Captain Kirk was already settling down in his seat; Spock had miscalculated his time of arrival.  And how much he would sleep, on his night off.

As soon as the doctor arrived on the Bridge, running his hands absently over the captain’s armrest, he agreed.

“I was hoping you’d get some rest, Jim,” he said, “You’re worse than Uhura.”

Kirk turned his head, as Spock stepped up to join them on the platform.

“ _I_ had to put in for her leave yesterday,” the doctor explained, “She’d never stop, otherwise.”

Spock placed his hands on the opposing armrest, in a pattern he copied from Doctor McCoy.  His gaze met the Captain’s.  Jim coughed.

“I trust you found something… interesting.” he prompted.  McCoy rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers.

“Yes, Captain,” said Spock, “Although I believe you’ll find Doctor McCoy more insightful about Earth history.”

“Try me,” he breathed.  His knowledge about Christmas customs was practically nonexistent, but he enjoyed bluffing. 

Spock began his cautious outline of Christmas cards, accepting frequent nods from Kirk and occasional mutterings of ‘fascinating’ from McCoy.

“So, these _cards_ … they’resent to friends?” Kirk asked.  He held out one hand, as if waiting for the answer to be dropped there.

“Family, traditionally.  A means of maintaining positive contact and conveying emotion.”

“Love,” said Bones, softly, “ _That’s_ what you’re describing, Spock, and you know it.”

The Captain did not bother with turning his head; his eyes stretched to see his friend, hovering behind his shoulder.

“Bones…”

“Doctor McCoy is quite correct, Captain,” the Vulcan interjected, “I have… seen a traditional Christmas card, and it is signed ‘love’, before the giver’s name.”

“There was one with the records?” led Kirk.

“I was sent one.” Spock caught a drop of embarrassment, and returned it to its place, “Many years ago.”

“Oh?” mused the Doctor.

“From my mother and father.  As you know, they study Earth culture.”

“I think the term you’re looking for, Spock, is ‘Christmas cheer.’  I didn’t think there was room for it on Vulcan.”

“You are incorrect; the card was produced on Vulcan.  I assume the ‘cheer’ you refer to is the message _within_ the card.”

McCoy nodded, slowly accepting contentment.  It was a slow-moving but sweet medication.  One that kept him out of fights, but not disagreements.  He thought more about the cards and their delightful illogic, while he returned to the turbo-lift.

Spock watched him as he left.  Kirk did not.

“Tell me more about the card,” began Kirk, “If you don’t mind, that is…”

Spock considered the words as he had the card; a match must be sought.  It was logical to give the captain information which would please him, as this was not of great importance to their mission.

“It is printed on a paper-replica.  One side shows a picture of my mother and father; the other bears her handwritten message.”

“That hardly seems like an efficient means of communication,” said Kirk, eager to use terms Spock would enjoy.

“It is not made to be efficient,” Spock admitted, “It is made, unlike so many modern exchanges, to be kept.”

Kirk smiled, letting his eyes flicker toward the ground before stumbling back up to his first officer.  They were in a constant, protective, and entirely necessary orbit.

“Thank you, Mister Spock.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

The scientist gave a faint bow before returning to his station.  He counted every star that passed the sensors, and stacked them against the offending emotions in his mind.  It was difficult to forget his mother’s words, and his father’s annotations.  Their faces, preserved in happiness and youth.  He could look at the card a thousand times and see precisely the same thing – the colors in their faces, the measurements of the novice Vulcan symbols, the stresses in the ink – but harvest infinite different meanings.  This troubled him; love.

“Did you send a response?”

The well-intentioned addition made Spock’s task more difficult.  He stared into his scanner, but sealed his eyes behind both eyelids.  Darkness offered a space for reflection which no mirror could ever duplicate.

“I did not.”

“You should,” the captain said, gently, “I _know_ they’d love to hear from you.”

Slowly, Spock reinstated his sight.  The human part of him offered tears, but the stronger half refused.

“I will.”

The intercom speakers coughed above them, and Spock was grateful for the added distraction.

It was Uhura, voice smooth and recently awoken, detailing the captain’s shore leave orders. 

“You’ve got plenty of time, Spock,” Kirk said, once her message concluded.

He thought more about the picture, and what he could do to passably duplicate it.  Nothing.

It was the silent protestation of his father, seen in his stance.  His mother’s overeager smile, which always sought to encourage something similar from him. 

Spock kept his eyes shut, allowing himself to see the answer.

His place on this Starship, among humans.  That was logical.  _That_ was the stiff posture, contrasted by the wavering, glowing humanity.

A match.

_Of the father’s heart begotten,  
Here the world from chaos rose._


	3. All I Want for Christmas is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Chapel loves Spock so much... one-sided fluff.

“Will that be all, Doctor?”

Nurse Chapel glanced expectantly across the room.

“Could be,” Doctor McCoy began, “Depends on where you’re running off to.”

“I thought I’d told you…”

The pause tugged at her remaining confidence, which fell over her like a curtain.  She refused to look up.

“You did, this morning.  I just thought, maybe if you said it enough, you’d realize how _completely_ ridiculous it sounds.”

Nervously, she laced up her fingers, and continued focusing on the floor.  It was painful, waiting for the doctor to speak:

“We all do crazy things,” she was relieved to _hear_ his smile, “Go on.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Since the broadcast of Uhura’s announcement, Chapel’s cabin had become home to an imposing pot of plomeek soup.  It brewed on a temporary burner, borrowed from the Lab.  The lid was barely visible, peering over the headboard of her bed, and rattling as it grew hotter.  She reached to stir it, and set aside a cup to sample.

Completely ridiculous.

Her tolerance of the taste was the product of many failed batches.  Plomeek soup was, essentially, the film on the roof of her mouth, after a restless night.  Bitter, lingering, and metallic.

Chapel pressed the cup to her lips, testing the scent of the steam, as well as its temperature.  After determining it to be perfectly settled, she dipped one finger into the center of the bowl.  She shrugged and prepared herself for the feeling.

This batch was, she decided, as close as she would ever get to authentic.  The library stores did not contain detailed instructions, and she never gained the courage to ask Spock directly.  Once, while visiting Vulcan with Roger, she was given a bowl.  She was dismissive of the taste, but tried to recall every ingredient and proportion.

Nurse Chapel replaced the lid and turned off the electronic flame beneath the pot.  She prepared two shallow bowls, sprinkling parsley and pepper into her own, before journeying to Spock’s quarters.

She stood for too long in the hallway, waiting to knock.  No, she would cough first, then knock.  What if he didn’t hear her?  A louder cough.  Two.  Three…

The broth, being so thin, cooled quickly.  She sighed and knocked, as she stared down into the bowl and counted flecks of pepper. 

He was a Vulcan; he heard her perfectly.

“Come in,” Spock said.  The door slid open, and she did so.

Spock sat at his desk, facing the door.  He did not look up at the nurse as she entered, however.  His eyes were fixed on two shiny strips of grey.

“Nurse Chapel,” he observed.  She remained in the doorway, until he glanced up, “Are you feeling well?”

“Oh, um, yeah.  And I can come back, if you’re doing something.”

The Vulcan gave a final, calculating look at the failed cards.  His own was disappointingly blank:

“I am doing nothing productive.  May I ask the reason for your visit?”

Christine nodded and set both bowls on the desk, to complement the cards.  She would not inquire about them, as she sensed they were a source of embarrassment.

“I know it’s a bit late in the day,” she mumbled, “But I thought you might want something to eat.  I just made some—”

“Plomeek soup,” he reached for the unenhanced bowl, “Did you also, ‘want something to eat?’”

“You can… have both bowls, if you want.  I don’t mind.”

“I only require one.  Anyway, the other is clearly intended for human consumption.”

“Yeah.”

He continued his visual patrol, between the cards, the door, the soup, and the visitor.

“I do not understand why you are still standing, Nurse.  You do not typically stand while eating.”

Chapel smiled at this, accepting the comment more warmly than it was intended, and sat down across from Spock.  She stirred her soup, trying politely to eat it in the same manner and speed the Vulcan demonstrated. 

In the sloshy silence, she became compelled to find out the meaning of the grey slates on her own.  She stared intently, between bites.

“An Earth tradition,” Spock explained, watching her, “They are called _Christmas cards._ ”

“But that one is written in Vulcan,” she said, pointing gently.  Spock looked instead at the blank one.

“By my mother.  I am currently composing a response.  So far, I have been unsuccessful.”

The nurse had to search her mind for a suitable scrap of logic.  She found it shivering in a corner, unsure of itself:

“Well, what do they normally say, Christmas cards?”

“I have no other sources for comparison; they are a correspondence between relatives.”

“Oh,” she sighed, and dug for another spoonful of soup.  Her bowl was nearly empty, but she could not convince herself to be thankful.  Although it would provide an excuse to leave, the taste would settle on her tongue if unoccupied by conversation.

“I believe I must say ‘thank you,’” Spock began, setting down his finished bowl, “for the soup.  You possess almost a natural skill at preparing it.”

Chapel felt the blood, etching against her cheeks, but she could not stop it.

“Thank _you_.” She leaned forward, “I believe I’m supposed to say ‘merry Christmas,’ since it was a gift.”

Spock nodded, looking again at the project on his desk.

“The ideal start of my message,” he said.

Christine smiled, rushed to pick up the dishes, and stumbled from the room.

_I just want you for my own,_  
 _More than you could ever know._  
 _Make my wish come true:_  
 _All I want for Christmas is you._

 


	4. Deck the Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Sulu and Uhura friendship :)

Lieutenant Uhura paced in the recreation area, casually overseen by Lieutenant Sulu.  She leaned up against the shelf, reaching as high as she could stretch.  Sulu’s giggling was caught by his cup of coffee, recently brewed.

Uhura turned a trained ear, and dropped both arms to her sides.

“What are you looking at, Mister?”

“What are you looking _for_ , Mister?” he said, setting down his drink, “Maybe I can help.”

“That red fabric there,” Uhura admitted, pointing at the uppermost shelf, “I’m redecorating.”

He retrieved it, and held it up to the light.  Originally, it was a tablecloth, used when important delegates or officers visited the Enterprise.  The fabric was shimmery, thin, and cool to the touch.  Exactly what Uhura wanted.  She held onto one corner, sifting it between her fingers.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, as she took it out of his arms, delighted.

“I haven’t decided… do you know anything about Christmas decorations, Mister?”

“I know one thing; my corps did it at Academy.”

Uhura smiled, and asked whether the fabric could fulfill it.

“Probably,” he said, “You hang up little bags with everyone’s names on them, and put gifts inside.  But, being cadets, we had to do one of the superstitions too: if you pin up this weed in the doorway – mistletoe, they call it – then no one can go inside.”

She continued grinning; she was always fond of memories.  Those of others, above her own.  She was excited to integrate them and call them up later, when the friendship demanded it.  This was, of course, a product of her previous loss of memory, and a way to show her gratitude.

“I can make bags out of this,” Uhura decided, while Sulu returned to his coffee, “And put them in the captain’s cabin!  Wouldn’t that be _adorable_?”

Sulu mirrored her smile, and offered whatever help she needed.  Together, they sat down at the dining table and tore the fabric into smaller sections.  With help from a cosmetic heater, which Uhura usually used on her hair, they fused each one into a pocket.

Both stood, and Uhura gathered up their work.

“Need any other help, Mister?” Sulu asked.

“I don’t think so, Mister.”

“Well _I_ don’t think you can reach the ceiling in there,” he laughed, as they trotted down the corridor.  She shoved his shoulder.

They arrived at the captain’s room, playfully forgetting the doors would not open for them.

“There’s a space there,” Sulu pointed across the hall, to an empty wall panel.

“People will _see_.”

“Not if we hurry.”

“I meant once we were finished,” Uhura suggested, needlessly.  She followed the other lieutenant to the wall, and watched as he tapped random places.

Quickly, the attempted stockings were pinned to the wall, as uniformly as possible.  They stretched from the bend in the hallway all the way to the nearest turbo-lift.

Uhura was inspired to find a tablet-pen; she adorned each with the name of a crewman.  Sulu did not volunteer his assistance with this portion of the project.  Instead, he counted the stockings.

“We’re about four-hundred shy,” he said, lightly.

“Well of _course_ I’ll make more.”

She stood against the opposite wall, to view as many of their creations as possible.  Sulu stood close beside her, and promised the captain would enjoy it.

“See you on the Bridge, Mister,” she said, moving toward the turbo-lift, “Thanks again.”

He laughed, and walked toward the opposite lift.

The captain was not on the Bridge when Uhura arrived.  Neither was Sulu.

This made her nervous.

She took her seat quietly, and adjusted her earpiece.  Spock, sitting in the captain’s chair, turned upon hearing her.  He saw no need for questions.

The intercom speaker buzzed from the armrest. 

“Lieutenant Uhura to Captain’s Quarters,” relayed Kirk’s voice.  Spock turned to her, and nodded once toward the door.

“Aye, Sir,” she said.

Her ride in the lift was silent.  The journey through the hallway was silent.  Until she reached the bend where the stockings began…

Four-hundred-and-thirty of them, covering the wall entirely.  They seemed to float, all on their own.

Uhura’s eyes twinkled and glowed, basking in the golden ribbons that had been carefully added to each one. 

“I needed them to be Regulation.”

She turned and smiled up at the captain.

“Sir, they’re wonderful!”

“Yes they are,” he grinned, “Mister Sulu caught me on the way to the Bridge, and told me it was all _your_ idea.  I had to go and see what I was missing.”

“But… you made the rest of them, didn’t you, Captain?”

“I had Mister Sulu take them to Uniforms to be duplicated.  Took no time at all.”

“And the ribbons?”

“And the ribbons.  I just borrowed some data from personnel records.”

Uhura moved to the one nearest hers, then those above and below.  They were all perfectly alike.

“We’ll have them all filled up before shore leave,” he promised, thrilled just to watch her, “Just like in the stories.”

_Deck the halls with boughs of holly._   
_‘Tis the season to be jolly._   
_Follow me in merry measure,_   
_While I tell of yuletide treasure._


	5. What Are You Doing New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you need Bones and Chapel being buddies. You just do.

 

“Two-hundred-and-sixteen,” said Nurse Chapel.

“Then we are _done_ ,” said Doctor McCoy, immediately abandoning the vial he was holding, “That’s more than half, if the captain asks.”

Her laugh was partially genuine; breathy and brief.  She continued filling the Hypo in her hand.  After sealing it and adding it to their growing stash, she muttered “two-hundred-and-seventeen.”

“Save some for tomorrow,” sighed the doctor.  He picked up the metal tub, nearly overflowing, and moved it to his desk in the other room.  Obediently, Nurse Chapel followed.

McCoy shoved the tub aside, to accommodate his pen and tablet, a record tape, and two glasses.  He took a bottle from beneath his desk and filled each glass with a thick, glowing orange liquid.  One was offered to Chapel, which she accepted.

The entire medical crew was quickly depleting their sources of entertainment.  Work was gone entirely, as they had not stopped at a foreign planet in five days, and would not be doing so again for at least twenty.  For their upcoming shore leave, Captain Kirk tasked them with creating a supply of Hypo-injections for the crew, to compensate for the thinner atmosphere of _Aristotle IX_.

Since news of their mandated holiday, only two crewmen had visited Sickbay.  Both for completely ordinary headaches.

“How’d your soup turn out?” McCoy asked, peering over his glass.

“Oh, I… I don’t really know.  I mean, I never liked it to begin with.”

“I know _you_ don’t,” he said, “But what did the _Vulcan_ think?”

“I couldn’t tell… you know how it goes.  He _said_ he liked it, but he didn’t—.”

“Well,” muttered McCoy, “then he did.  Spock wouldn’t lie; he can’t.”

Chapel gave a half-convinced nod, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“He was preoccupied… it was those cards you told me about.”                                                  

A gear clicked at the back of the doctor’s mind, starting the same desperate revolutions.  He stared on while she spoke, hearing nothing beyond ‘father’ and ‘mother.’

“Sounds about right,” he sighed, long after Christine was quiet.  She rested her arms on the table, and tried to study his face.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Doctor?” she asked, tilting her head.

He set down his glass, internally deciding – for perhaps the first time in his life – that it was half- _full_.

“Fine,” he replied, “Bored out of my mind is all.”

She offered to clean up the lab on her own.  He quietly refused:

“No, I need to finish that report for the captain, anyway.”

“Honestly, I don’t mind staying.  I can at _least_ keep you company.”

McCoy leaned back in his chair.

“I’d like that.”

They raised their glasses, clinking the rims together in sarcastic celebration.

_Maybe it’s much too early in the game,_   
_Oh, but I thought, I’d ask you just the same._   
_What are you doing,_   
_New Year’s Eve?_


	6. Go Tell it on the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty and Chekov friendship, yay.

“Captain,” Engineer Scott’s voice slipped through the speakers.  Captain Kirk tapped a button on his chair, leaning over the armrest.

“Yes, Scotty, what is it?”

“Nothing major, Sir, since we’re not stopping off anywhere, but the pressure readings in Shuttlebay are a wee bit off-kilter.”

“Anything I can do, Scotty?”

“Yes, Sir, if you’d be so kind; I could use an extra set of hands, if you can spare it.”

Doctor McCoy, standing idly in the Bridge, immediately pulled his hands away from the chair and folded them behind his back.  When the captain looked at him, he shook his head.

“Not _that_ desperate,” he shrugged.  Kirk nodded and looked to the Navigators.

Sulu and Chekov glanced at one another, in precise, silent communication.  Their eyes moved together, as they watched an invisible coin, spinning undecided on the table.  It settled, and they looked up.

“I thought it vas your turn,” mumbled Chekov, squinting.

“No,” Sulu corrected, “Do you remember, oh, it must’ve been—”

They spoke at once:

“Last week,” said Sulu

“Last veek,” said Chekov.

The younger man nodded, stood, and turned to face Captain Kirk.

 “I vill report to Engineering, Keptin.”

“Thank you, Ensign.  Noted.”

* * *

 

Chekov straightened his shirt upon exiting the lift.  Scotty met him in the corridor, leaning casually against the wall. 

“Vhat vould you like me to do, Mester Scott?”

The engineer extended his hand.

“Scotty,” he explained, as the ensign hesitantly shook it.

“Ve have met before…” Chekov began, following him toward the shuttlebay.

“Aye,” Scotty said quietly.  He said nothing else until they reached their destination; they stood and stared into the bay, then at the readings on the panel beside the door.

“What do ya know about regulation readings for pressure fluctuations?”

Chekov glanced up, eager to compose a worthwhile exaggeration.

“I studied zis at Academy, Sir.  It vas the subject of my dissertation.”

Scotty turned and took a single step away from the shuttle room.

“It’s a miracle ya graduated, then,” the engineer chuckled, “because I just made that up.”

The ensign coughed and rolled back his shoulders.  Scotty watched, entertained.

“I’m not gonna give ya a quiz, Mister Chekov.”

“May I ask zen, Sir, vhy you called for me?”

The engineer continued walking down the corridor, followed intently by his pupil.

“I didn’t call for anyone in particular… just like to keep the captain on his toes.”

“Zhere is nothing wrong?”

Engineer Scott shook his head, and ran one hand longingly over the railing as they passed it. They were spiraling toward the Engine Room.

“Could ya give that button a tap, Laddie?” Scotty tossed his arm against a line of buttons, flashing blue and yellow in quick succession.

Chekov complied.  The colors and rhythm did not change.

“Vell?”

“Well I had to say ya helped me with _something_.  That alone was worth a bottle of scotch.”

“I don’t like scotch,” muttered Chekov, into his shoulder.

“But you’ll learn to, won’t ya, if I forward a commendation to the captain?”

The ensign gave a slow, cunning smile.

“Zis sounds like a fair trade.”

“Not a trade, my boy.  A gift.”

Again, they shook hands.  Both turned and walked to their respective cabins, satisfied with their evening off.

* * *

 

When Chekov returned to his seat on the Bridge the next day, he found what was obviously a bottle of scotch, wrapped up in a set of scrubs from Sickbay.  When asked, Sulu said he ‘hadn’t noticed’ anyone depositing the gift.  Chekov shrugged, and set it on the ground beneath his feet.

“Scotty said you got everything sorted out in record-time, Mister Chekov,” the captain hummed, “I’m very impressed.”

Chekov sat tall and proud in his chair, earning a friendly pat from the captain and a raised eyebrow from Sulu.  They looked at each other for a moment.

“Zhank you, Sir,” Chekov said, glancing comfortably at the poorly-wrapped bottle, “It vas nothing.”

_Go tell it on the mountain  
Over the hills and everywhere._


	7. All Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to balance fluff with feels, eventually.

Doctor McCoy checked the time, although he wasn’t anchored to the answer.  Earth and its concepts left him, even before the opposite occurred; he had forgotten about ‘day’ and ‘night’ upon entering Starfleet’s medical school.

Beside the growing collection of Hypos, Christine had left him a packet of authentic paper, borrowed from one of the archive rooms.  They were mostly blank, fraying at the edges, and caked with dust. 

He was careful in setting out three pieces on the desk in front of him, collecting the soft blue light of the Sickbay.  They were lined up precisely, as if vital to a life-saving procedure, so the edges touched but did not overlap.  The doctor collected a traditional pen and tested its weight between his fingers.

The next step was obvious, but McCoy had not prepared for it.  He wrote gently on each page, unsure of the ink and ashamed of his penmanship.  After addressing each piece, he paused, letting the pen start a pool of color at the bottom of the third page.

L.J. Akaar                                                      Natira                                                 Joanna

All the words existed inside him, trying to fight through the unfamiliar pen.  He stared, until he only saw the color of the paper, blurred over all of his vision.

He checked the time again.

Upon shaking his head, he decided to measure the time in words.  So far, excluding the names, there were ten.

He heard the door to his office opening, and glanced reluctantly at the visitor.

“I was sent here by the captain,” Spock explained.

“Of course you were,” shrugged the doctor, still staring at his papers, “Anything in particular?”

“Your completed report on the atmosphere of _Aristotle IX,_ for transmission to Starfleet Command.”

The silence drew him closer; the captain required an answer and he could not leave without one.

“I should hope, Doctor, that you are not completing your report on paper.”

McCoy looked up, momentarily.

“I’m not,” he said dryly, “It’s on that tape.” With the pen in hand, he drew a vague circle over the table behind him.  Spock stepped toward it, picking up tapes and comparing them.

“Doctor,” Spock recited, selecting a tape, “Are you purposely restraining your emotions?  I do not require such accommodation; it does not suit you.”

_Soon_ he wrote.  Twenty-eight words, spread across three pages.  When one called to him, he would answer.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Spock.”

_Admirable_.

“These are tapes of alien languages,” Spock proceeded, after pocketing the report. 

“ _You’re_ very observant today.”

_Wonderful,_ one page earned.  _Kind_ , he gave the next.  For the third, he reserved _beautiful_ , written slowly in large, sweeping letters.  Like the breezy fields that inspired it.

He had to stop and consider the correct symbols for each recipient; when he thought too quickly, he wrote in English on each one.  He was never one to be inconsiderate of cultures.  Except, playfully, those native to Vulcan.

“Is there some way I can assist you, Doctor?” Spock leaned over him, near enough to read the words.

“Did you find the report?” McCoy spread out his arms, smearing the ink between his sleeves and the paper, but covering most of the messages.

“I did.”

All three cards earned variations of _Mother_.  Sixty-four words.  _Hopefully_.  Sixty-five.

“You’re taking it to the Bridge yourself, aren’t you, Mister Spock?”

“I assume the captain would enjoy seeing you, as you have been curiously absent today.”

_Fine._ Eighty, when he utilized English rules.

“Fine,” he said, “Give me a minute… and don’t start counting.”

Quietly, Spock stood and watched.

McCoy looked compulsively at the time-reading, having promised himself one minute.

He would send them from the Starbase on _Aristotle IX_ , assuming they still ran freight-ships that would regard paper as a package.  Maybe it would be considered an antique, and no one would dare to touch it.

Fine.

_I hope you are well._

Two minutes passed, ready to welcome a third, as the pen hovered vainly over the final paper.  Often, that was the last thing a doctor needed to say.

Spock continued watching, not reminding him of the time or commitment.  He began composing advice about the cards, as he recognized them, and would offer it if McCoy asked.

“I don’t suppose you’re the one to ask,” McCoy began, turning in his chair, “but what do I do with these things?”

“In my reading, I have discovered they are sometimes marked with lyrics to ancient Christmas songs.”

“You don’t happen to know any, do you?”

McCoy held one open hand at each end of the paper procession, allowing Spock to study it.  The Vulcan chose not to, and instead called on memory of the song.

“You are incorrect; upon reading one, I was immediately reminded of you and your fondness for sentiment.”

“That’s a somewhat… sentimental thing to do, isn’t it, Mister Spock?”

“It was the correct, _human_ response.”

“Half.”

“Yes,” Spock stared, “Half.”

The doctor smiled, and wrote down every word Spock said.  They were flat, but not cold.

_Love, to you my thoughts are turning_   
_All for you my heart is yearning._   
_All through the night._   
_Though sad fate our lives may sever,_   
_Parting will not last forever._   
_There’s a hope that leaves me never,_   
_All through the night._


	8. Little Drummer Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't miss the chance to throw in one of my favorite characters-of-the-week. Enjoy!

“Scotty, Scotty!” the crewman’s voice echoed through the engine room like the tolling of a bell on a cold, foggy morning.  Engineer Scott glanced up to meet the words.

“Something wrong?”

Alexander, the newest addition to the Enterprise family, teetered on the platform above the ladder.  To reach the railing, he leaned forward.

“Nothing wrong, Scotty, sorry.  Do you remember Captain Kirk asking about suggestions for Christmas?”

“Indeed I do,” Scotty said, taking one step up the ladder, “Have ya got something to suggest?”

“Just an idea… I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“Well let’s hear it, Laddie.”

“I don’t know if it’s any good, though,” Alexander scratched his head, looking glumly at the floor.

“Every idea’s a good one, so far as I’m concerned,” Scotty took another step up, “Go on.”

“Well, back at home, they used to have big fires for celebrations.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Not real ones!  Maybe, if we make some sort of projection…?”

Scotty smiled.

“Now _that,_ I can do.”

“We’ll have it done in time for Christmas?” Alexander asked, grinning, “I’ve never been on shore leave before!”

“’Course we will,” nudged Scotty, returning to the ground, “If I can have a little help.”

Alexander followed him, down the ladder and around the platform.  They stood facing the warp controls.

“You want _me_ to help?” Alexander reached cautiously forward, to tug at the engineer’s sleeve.

Scotty leaned over.

“Aye,” he said, “I’d be honored.”

They shook hands.

“It’s gonna be hard to beat a gift like that,” declared Scotty, considering some switches.  In his mind, the fireplaces were already complete, bringing actual warmth to every crewman’s cabin.  When he explained the instructions, Alexander beamed and promised to follow all of them precisely.

_I am a poor boy too._   
_I have no gift to bring,_   
_That’s fit to give a king._


	9. I Saw Three Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sulu/Chekov if you look really hard, I guess. Otherwise, happy, friendly fluff on the Bridge.

The scotch bottle remained mostly full, with Chekov complaining about its poor quality to anyone who would listen.  Usually, and only because of proximity, the responsibility was dragged up by a shrugging Lieutenant Sulu.

“It is like _vater_ ,” Chekov bemoaned, while Sulu tried to turn his chair, “I vake up and vash my face vith it.”

“That’s the only reason any is missing,” Sulu was aware of the game, and completed the turn beneath his breath.  The ensign leaned over to look at him.

“Of course,” he said, “You didn’t think I vould _drink_ it?”

“ _Never_.”

Chekov rarely prepared for agreement.

“You did not think I vould consume zis… poor commentary on civilization?  Zat I would let zis child’s candy-syrup into my body?!”

“I didn’t think any of those things,” Sulu said, smoothly, “They’re all very specific.”

“Mister Chekov,” Captain Kirk prompted.  Both men turned their heads, “I don’t think you’ve been hearing Mister Sulu correctly, all day.”

The Lieutenant nodded, but smiled and assured him it was all a kind, harmless demonstration.

“Yes, of course,” Kirk continued, “But I don’t want you to mishear any of my orders.  Is _that_ clear, Mister Chekov?”

He kicked at the gift, still mostly wrapped in the thin fabric.

“Clearer zan zis bottle of newborn baby’s tears, Keptin.”

Uhura giggled at her console, causing Spock to glance over.  Kirk held up one hand.

“Thank you.”

For some time, the Bridge was quiet.  Uhura clicked away at her buttons.  The captain’s feet were sometimes dragged across the floor, whenever Spock stood up and moved toward him.  Twice, the lift opened.  Scotty, then McCoy.  Neither stayed long.

Chekov coughed, to gain Sulu’s attention:

“Hmm?”

He nodded his head twice toward the floor.  Sulu noticed the bottle, entirely freed of its ridiculous wrapping.  The doctor had come with the pretense of collecting it, earlier.  He had shrugged.

Sulu’s response was similar:

“So what?”

Ensign Chekov rolled his eyes, head, and shoulders all at once.  He shifted back in his seat, and nudged the bottle across the imaginary boundary which split their workstation in half.  Sulu stretched to reach for it, nearly knocking it over.

“This is stupid,” he presented to Chekov’s shoulder, as he leaned down.  His breath was hot.

“It is harmless,” Chekov smirked, “You said zis yourself.”

The bottle slid back over the line, beckoning Chekov. 

“You vin if you pass it ze most, without ze keptin noticing.”

Sulu nodded and tried to cough casually.  He leaned over and used both hands to move the bottle to Chekov’s territory.

“Mister Chekov,” Spock’s voice emanated from behind them.  He stood against the captain’s chair, arms folded behind his back.

The ensign did not move.  Sulu grinned proudly at his controls, catching his reflection against the viewing screen.

“Yes, Sir?”

Kirk rustled in his chair.  One of his hands tapped Spock’s arm, encouraging him to continue:

“Are you aware of the new flight heading?”

“Ve are on course for _Ari—”_

“You did _not_ hear the captain’s request?”

Sulu had not heard it either, and hoped the questions would not topple onto him. The blame would, inevitably, but he wanted to at least avoid the questions.

“Yes, Sir, I heard him.  But I… zhere vas a ship!”

“A ship, Mister Chekov?” the captain was entertained, “Perhaps I should get my sight checked…”

He looked at Spock, who did not laugh.  When he turned to the other armrest, he shrugged upon finding it unattended by Doctor McCoy.  He continued:

“Did you see this ship too, Mister Sulu?”

Chekov’s eyes were scribbled in entirely, as he faced his friend.  Sulu did not look at the captain.

“I did, Sir.  We are still on course for _Aristotle IX_ , with current speed just under Warp One.”

“Will… evasive procedures be necessary?”

“Not at this time, Sir.”

This earned a too-loud sigh of relief from Chekov.  The bottle teetered between his feet.

“Good,” said Kirk, still completely unconvinced, “Then our stop can wait.”

“Vhat stop, Sir?”

Sulu pressed his forehead into one hand, and shut his eyes.  His fingers remained nervously alert atop the switches.

“Never mind, Mister Chekov.  I’ll wait.  Mister Spock says it’s out of our way…”

It was Sulu who kicked the bottle next.  Chekov felt the liquid, dripping onto his feet.  He muttered about the deplorable quality of the seal, at which the lieutenant laughed.

“Is everything alright, Mister Chekov?” the captain asked.

“Yes, Keptin.”

Sulu continued giggling, shoving his face into both hands this time.

“Did you see another ship?” his voice was disappointingly calm.

“Two, Keptin.  Ve must go betveen them.  It is ze only safe option.”

Kirk nodded, enjoying the game, while Spock watched and decided not to interfere. 

“That sounds like it calls for Yellow Alert, at least.  What do you say, Mister Spock?”

“If I had seen these… ships, Captain, I would be inclined to agree.  I must check my scanners.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kirk held out an arm, barring Spock’s way to the stair, “Mister Sulu can tell us much quicker.”

“There are, uhm, no ships visible in this sector, Captain.”

He grinned triumphantly at Chekov, who kicked the bottle over with a sneer.

“I think we can call that a ‘draw,’” Sulu said, once the captain turned away, “Once you clean these boots off.”

He bent one leg and swiveled free of the table, showcasing his shoe in the light.

“It’s vater,” muttered Chekov, “Don’t be a baby.”

Sulu picked up the bottle and tipped it over Chekov’s boots, too.

“A draw.  I’ll clean my own.”

_I saw three ships_   
_Come sailing by_   
_On Christmas Day_   
_In the morning_


	10. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm working my way through every possible friendship, how exciting.

“That’s not what I’d prescribe for a headache,” mused Doctor McCoy, upon meeting his patient. 

Engineer Scott waited in Sickbay, sitting at the edge of the center bed and sipping from a borrowed bottle of scotch.  Chekov had politely rewrapped it, attached a tape to complain about his ruined shoes, then deposited it in front of Scotty’s cabin.

“Who said anything about a headache?” he set down the bottle, balancing it carefully on the mattress, “Maybe I’m here for a social visit.”

This did not coincide with Nurse Chapel’s recommendation, when she called for her supervisor.  McCoy shrugged.

“Well, are you?”

“I think it might do me a world of good, Doctor.”

He took the glasses – usually reserved for himself and Chapel – and aligned them on the table beside the bed. 

“Long day?” nudged McCoy, as Scotty settled the balance of each glass.  When he held up one hand, venturing to stop Scotty’s pouring, he was met with muttering about how Chekov had watered it down before returning it. 

“Suits me,” the doctor said softly.  He was ignored:

“It’s only been a day since I last saw ya?” Scotty stared with wide eyes.

“Just a guess.”

“Then it’s been even longer since we’ve had a drink together, hasn’t it?”

McCoy nodded, and coughed over the brim of his glass before sipping it.  He always enjoyed the engineer’s company, but not his choice of beverage.

Their conversation drifted quickly away from casual shores, dragged by tides of familiarity.  They sat and talked as friends, leaning against Sickbay beds with one leg crossed over the other.  On similar evenings, they always fell to counting each other’s greying hairs.  At first, silently and respectfully, then competitively and playfully.  As their five years in space dwindled away, they reverted to the comfortable, quiet method. 

“It isn’t a Christmas ‘spirit’, is it; Scotch?” Scotty said, shuffling backward.  He set his cup down on the table, mounted to the wall beside the bed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you don’t have t’ drink it.”

McCoy shrugged and resigned himself to finishing it, as it had lasted for the entirety of their conversation.  Payment.

“I’ll find something more traditional,” he promised, “For next time.”

“We’ll have to get everyone together for that,” Scotty grinned, “The captain would like that.  And Mister Spock could be convinced to join us, I think.”

“Not by me.”

“Really?  I can’t think of anyone more qualified.”

He accepted this with one stiff, modest nod.

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

Engineer Scott stood, and fetched the empty glasses.

“Just what you need,” he said, “I’m not a doctor, but you can trust me on that one.  I know the feeling.”

As he set the cups down on McCoy’s desk, he reached to rub at the branches of grey that grew against his temple.  McCoy did too, as if he was looking into a mirror.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.  I know _I_ won’t.”

He tapped the grey; the doctor did the same.

_You beneath life’s crushing load,_   
_Whose forms are bending low,_   
_Who toil along the climbing way,_   
_With painful steps and slow._   
_Look now, for glad and golden hours._   
_Oh rest, beside the weary road._


	11. I'll be Home for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rand is a precious darling, and her friendship with Jim is wonderful.

Captain Kirk reached his quarters, sighing in tune with the _swish_ of the opening door.

He was on a short, mandated break from the Bridge, and only ventured to his room to collect a tape to be archived.  After Spock’s observation that communication was too-often temporary, the captain decided to keep track of every message sent to him, at least until Christmas.  There was little else to do.

So far, he had collected one conversation with Spock – concerning a possible detour – and one with Doctor McCoy – about Christmas traditions he wanted to try out.

“Captain?”

 Yeoman Rand stood respectfully in the entryway, letting the door close behind her. 

“Even if it’s just for a minute,” he began, “I _am_ off-duty.”

He paused, and waited for her to say ‘Jim’, instead.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Not too much…”

She was invited to sit at his desk, while he sifted around for a blank tape.  Upon finding one, it was clicked into the console on the table, and instructed to archive all of his personal communications.

“I was just thinking,” she continued, taking the chair, “how nice it would be if we could stop by earth before Christmas.”

The captain continued standing, unable to decide between folded arms or dancing fingers.  They tapped the table, in front of the console, in between flashes of light and bursts of mechanical sound.

“I was thinking about it, too,” he admitted, “I’ll do everything I can.”

“You’re going to talk to Starfleet Command?”

The corners of his lips crinkled, restraining a chuckle. 

“No,” he said, “I’m not.  And I trust you won’t, either.”

“Of course not, Captain.”

He watched as the tape copied a message between himself and his First Officer.  The letters flickered by, augmented by his memory of the exchange; he could not read them as fast as they appeared.

_What do you think of a short detour, Mister Spock?  To earth, of course._

_Starfleet Command has already stated otherwise; my opinion coincides with the order.  I must assume you are asking me for the most effective way to subvert this order._

_That’s right._

_On such matters, Captain, you do not require my assistance.  You are quite capable of making the correct decision, to benefit your ship and our crew._

_My ship,_ he thought, _but **our** crew._

“You wanted to visit your family,” Kirk said quietly.

Yeoman Rand gave a gentle nod.

“That’s a better excuse than I can make,” the captain muttered, “Your family… _home_.”

Within his eyes, sentiment grew.  She watched it.

“It was just a thought, Captain.  I understand if we can’t.”

“I think the family up here may need to suffice, Yeoman.  Until I can come up with something.”

_…your ship and our crew._

“That’s fine, Captain.  I’ve enjoyed the free-time, at least.”

“Speaking of which—”

“Thanks, _Jim_ ,” she stood, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

_Christmas Eve will find me_   
_Where the love light gleams_   
_I’ll be home for Christmas,_   
_If only in my dreams._


	12. All is Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhura and Chapel give me life.

_All is Well_

“Uhura?  What are you doing here?”

Nurse Chapel turned and met her in the doorway.

“Christine!” she was relieved to see her preferred Nurse.  She was always nervous, venturing down to Sickbay.

“Are you alright?” Chapel took Uhura’s arms and led her immediately to the nearest bed.  Uhura sat politely on the edge, and folded her hands in her lap.  Chapel dropped her arms.

“I have a bit of a headache… I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Although the nurse wanted to agree, she was required to be thorough.  She hated the dark fear that crept into Uhura’s eyes, every time she received a diagnosis.  It was spreading already, as Chapel’s breath hitched between her lips.

“You’re probably right,” she smiled, resting a hand on Uhura’s shoulder, “But let’s be sure.”

She was quiet in collecting the necessary readings, waving her scanner behind Uhura’s head.

“It’s nothing, isn’t it?” Uhura did her best to sit still, as the mechanical noises echoed behind her.

“We get a lot of people in for headaches,” Chapel’s voice was soothing, “Especially when we’re below Warp Speed for so long… they have to change the pressure in the cabins, to compensate.”

“Oh,” she nodded.

“I can get you a Hypo, if you want one.  For the pain.” She set down the whirring scanner, “I’m sure you want to get back to work.”

There was a pause, while both considered what to say next.  Neither wanted to show their concern, because it was overwhelming; it would only weaken the other.

“That would be fine, thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” she smiled, “I promise.”

Chapel waited until Uhura nodded, before stepping into the office to retrieve her medicine.

“Here,” she said, “We’ll have you fixed up in a moment.”

Uhura watched the Hypo, with nervous eyes, as Chapel pressed it against her arm. 

Chapel was quiet, and paused after the injection.  The air settled between them, and Uhura shut her eyes.

“All better?” Chapel asked, reaching again for the other woman’s arm.

Uhura tapped her forehead, while her soft breaths tried to form words.  Chapel leaned in, until she could hear them and count them, and understand them in their own desperate language.

“It may take some time to settle in,” Chapel said slowly.

The officer moved one hand to each temple, pressing them there.  Chapel’s hands followed, urgently, but maintaining gentle and professional precision.

“Are you feeling better?” the nurse repeated, conducting the rhythm on Uhura’s temples.  Her nails rested just below Uhura’s hairline, waiting.

The silence drew her hands down, until they were cupped protectively around Uhura’s cheeks.

Chapel leaned in, to place a careful kiss on her forehead.  Uhura’s eyes followed Chapel’s; both shut and reopened simultaneously.

“I’m feeling much better,” hummed Uhura, “Thank you.”

“I’d do the same for any of my patients,” Chapel said, mostly to herself.

_All is well_   
_For tonight,_  
Darkness fell   
_Into the dawn of love’s light._


	13. Sleigh Ride

Captain Kirk paced aimlessly on the Bridge.  Occasionally, Spock would glance over and provide what he intended to be encouragement, through a stiff nod.

Kirk was grappling with a decision; a detour. 

“Helmsman,” he said, after the fourth of Spock’s nods.

Sulu turned.

“Yes, Captain?”

“How badly would it delay us if we stopped by Earth at, say, about 1930?”

The navigator considered the time readings, on display in the center of his console.

“Nineteen-hundred hours, Sir?”

“Not quite,” said Kirk, “Mister Spock?”

“I understand, Captain,” he stepped between the two officers, already prepared to adjust their heading.

“Mister Scott,” Kirk began, sighing over the speaker, “Prepare for three to beam down.”

* * *

 

“I don’t know if I like this, Jim,” muttered Doctor McCoy, into the captain’s shoulder.

Spock watched them, reeling in breaths of the new, earth air.  Although tinged with smoke, it was invigorating.

They heard the calm noise of the transporter beam, slipping quietly away through space andtime.

“I know,” Kirk said, “We’re not going to touch anything.  We’re going to _watch_.”

“May I remind you, Captain, that our very presence here may alter the timeline of the entire planet?  Our collective future.”

“Yes, Spock,” Kirk pressed his communicator to the side of his face.  As long as it worked, he was sure their future was perfectly unharmed.  He heard Scotty, giving orders regarding their orbit, and was content, “Come on.”

He reached down, resting one hand over Spock’s forearm and one over McCoy’s.  He led them purposefully across the street, nearly dragging them to keep a uniform pace.

Spock and McCoy knew better than to argue.  They had each tried, once, and failed to convince the captain to return home.  Free of this formality, they would follow every order he gave. 

The wind gradually quickened, spiraling around them.  Gently, it placed snowflakes on their coats and hats as they dashed around street-signs.

Captain Kirk stopped before a bright, foggy window.  Spock explained the frame of flickering electric lights, exposing it as a holiday tradition. Warm, savory smoke billowed from the house’s chimney, and lodged softly into their lungs.

Within a crowd of men in patched sweaters, they found Edith Keeler.  She doused mismatched mugs with coffee, tugged at her scarf, and tended to the fireplace.

The room was friendly and steeped in laughter.  Kirk pressed his forehead to the window, waiting for Spock or McCoy to drag him away.  Neither did.

Instead, the doctor reached for Spock’s knitted hat, pulling it down to properly cover his ears.  Kirk continued staring forward.

“I wish I could…” he placed one hand pensively against the glass, “hear her voice.”

He dropped his hand to his side, to trace his fingers habitually over the communicator.

“We cannot go inside, Captain,” Spock informed him.

“Yes, I know.”

They watched the men indoors, eagerly sipping their coffee, and crowding around a table set before the fireplace.  Edith Keeler was barely visible, as she set out a tray of food; pumpkin pie, already sliced and counted to accommodate every guest.  The men clamored for forks, plates and cloth napkins.

“How long can we stay, Jim?”

Although they all wore gloves, Doctor McCoy rubbed his hands together, then cupped them to catch his breath.  Snow continued falling.

“Sorry, Bones,” he said, still fixated on the scene indoors, “Not much longer.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.  Take your time.”

Edith Keeler’s eyes fought through the waves of brown and grey coats, and made the mistake of catching Jim’s.  He stepped away from the glass.

The others spoke at once:

“Captain.”

“ _Jim_.”

“I know,” he repeated.

Another step back.  His fingers tightened around the communicator, forcing fibers of the glove into the speaker.

The door opened, tipping back the head of a decorative bell.  It chimed lightly, as Edith Keeler approached them.  She extended her hand, offering a mug of coffee and then a handshake, once Kirk accepted the drink.

“Won’t you come inside?” she made sure to look at all of them, as she spoke, “It’s much too cold for loitering.  Come in and have some coffee.”

The mug was passed to McCoy.  He took one prescribed sip, when Edith looked back at him.

“You’re all welcome,” she assured, “I don’t ask questions.”

“That’s… very kind of you,” Kirk said, “But you don’t need to worry; we’re on our way home.”

He felt for the communicator in his pocket, ensuring it was adequately hidden.  Her eyes did not follow his hand.

“Maybe some other night,” he added.

Above them, the Enterprise flashed a beam of light; the signal to leave.  Edith Keeler stared longingly up at it, and compared it to the lights in her doorway.  The bell was silent and still, by now.

“Which way is your home?” she asked, as Kirk finally managed to tear himself away.  He had taken one step toward the street, while Spock looked for oncoming automobiles.

“It isn’t far,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets.  Doctor McCoy caught his shoulder, so he could not turn to face her.

“I do hope you’ll stay together, safe and warm.”

“Safe and warm,” echoed Kirk.

“Merry Christmas,” she called after them.  The words drifted over their shoulders.

“Merry Christmas,” Kirk repeated.

* * *

 

The captain spent the evening alone in his cabin.  He was slow in changing back into his uniform, gloved hands lingering over every thread Edith Keeler had brushed against, or even breathed on.

Outside of his door, he heard footsteps.

“Come in.”

Doctor McCoy joined him, and sat on the end of his bed.  Quickly, Kirk tugged off both gloves, and dropped them in a pile on the floor.

“Brought you something,” McCoy said.  He set the coffee cup on the bedside table, while Kirk watched with wide eyes.

His smile was hesitant.

“Don’t let Spock see,” he began, “what if that changes our future, because you took it?”

“Jim,” he turned his hands, “It’s an old trick, and you know it.  She _gave_ it to you.  You’re supposed to bring it back.”

“What a woman,” he said, “I’ll be sure to do that.”

_There’s a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy,_   
_When they pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie._   
_These wonderful things are the things,_   
_We’ll remember all through our lives._


	14. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The triumvirate is taking over my life and I am not even sorry.

“I _told_ you he wouldn’t show up,” said the doctor, through his teeth.

“Really?” Kirk glanced at him; they stood parallel to one another, “Was that before or after you _promised_ he would?”

“I never said that.”

The captain leaned against the countertop.  They were in the common area of the canteen, waiting for Spock to join them.  As McCoy outlined in their earlier messages, there were Christmas customs to try out.  Naturally, they needed a scientific presence.  ‘Supervision’, Spock called it, when the doctor presented him with the idea and a casual invitation.

He appeared, as Captain Kirk began his typical, slightly nervous pacing.  They met before the replicator, with McCoy standing slightly behind them, his shoulders shadowing one of theirs.

“Punctual as ever, Mister Spock,” he said.

“As much as possible, Doctor, with your attention to detail.  Is ‘sometime after dinner, I suppose’ a common measurement of time, among humans?”

“Alright,” Kirk stepped between them, “Let’s get started.  Bones?”

He inputted a tape at the food-replicator, while the others watched.

“Gentlemen,” he gestured at the hatch as it opened, “I give you _hot chocolate_.”

Spock’s lips twitched; he wanted to speak but found no words.  Instead, he shook his head.  Just once, to each side.

Kirk nudged the scientist’s shoulder, pushing him nearer to the machine. 

“What’s the matter, Spock?” McCoy asked, partially smiling.

“I believe you are aware, Doctor, of the affects such a substance may have on Vulcans.”

“Half-Vulcan,” muttered McCoy, “It won’t touch your human half, wherever that’s buried.”

“Besides,” Kirk proposed, “it’s been replicated.  Synthetic powder, Spock.  I doubt the computer could even find a scrap of chocolate to put in it.”

Spock did not cite the odds which disagreed.  The computer’s memory banks were familiar with recipes for _all_ the human foods Spock had ever bothered researching, and more.   While not always able to generate enough of genuine ingredients, it made a convincing copy of everything in its store.

The three mugs stared back at them, through wisps of steam.  McCoy reached for his own, followed by Kirk.  Spock would not pick up his serving; the captain had to pass it to him, and force his fingers around the handle.

“You’ll like it, Spock,” he promised.

“You’ll be _fine_ ,” McCoy added, sensing the hesitation as it spread across his face.  Spock was staring into the cup, through the murky and essentially artificial liquid.

“Have either of you tried this before?  I would like a point of reference, for the human behavior.”

“Once, mixed with coffee,” Kirk said.

McCoy shrugged and mumbled, ‘probably.’

“Just drink it, Spock,” Kirk said, resting his hand on the Vulcan’s forearm, “Stubbornness doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s a very human trait, I think,” prompted McCoy.

Spock raised his glass to comply, waiting patiently for the other two to grin and say ‘cheers’ at each other.  This was another tradition he saw no meaning in.

Simultaneously, they sipped the hot chocolate.

“It’s nice,” Kirk decided.

“Not bad,” agreed McCoy, “but I _hate_ replicated water.”

“I know you do.” He turned and smiled up at Spock, “Opinion?”

“None, Captain.  Its purpose, as far as I am aware, is to provide nourishment and energy.”

“But how does it _taste_?” begged McCoy, “I _know_ you’ve got taste-buds, Mister Spock, even if they are a bit different.”

To give the correct answer, Spock was required to try another sample of the drink.  Kirk watched with gleaming eyes, eager to copy him.

“Sweet,” he admitted, taking a cautious step backward, “It is enjoyable.”

Kirk just smiled, while McCoy offered a quiet, “I’ll drink to that.”

Again, they tipped back their glasses.  Even Spock.

“So, no real chocolate, then?” McCoy set his empty mug down in the replicator, and prompted another by pressing a button.

“No,” he kept the cup in front of his face, and spoke into it.  His voice was slow, and danced with its own echo before the others heard it.

“There _is_ chocolate?” Kirk moved to take a seat at the table.  McCoy followed him, and sat casually on the tabletop.

“In the powder,” Spock’s voice was quiet, “Collected at the bottom of the cup.”

“You don’t need to finish it,” Kirk said softly, “I understand.”

“It is, as humans say, ‘too late.’”

“Uh oh,” Bones said, monotone.

Spock placed his mug back in the replicator, and chose to sit on the ground.  He tried to copy the way his father sat in meditations, but felt embarrassed and gave up.  Leaning forward, Kirk watched him.

For a moment, he laughed; sparse, dry, and quiet.  McCoy stood and stepped anxiously toward him. 

“Are you alright, Spock?” he knelt beside him, “I’m sorry…”

The Vulcan was quiet, and glanced mainly at Kirk.

“It’s okay,” soothed Kirk, as he joined them. 

“It is,” Spock promised, as they heaved him up between their shoulders, “I was prepared for such emotional disturbance.  I think… I think I may have another cup.”

“I don’t,” McCoy recited, “I think you need some help home.”

“’A ride’, as humans say.”

They emerged into the hall, thankful to find it unattended.  Lights guided them to a turbo-lift.

“Why the sudden fascination with humans?” McCoy asked, once they were sealed in the elevator.  Spock leaned against the railing, smiling to himself.

“They are… sweet.”

The doctor shook his head, and rubbed one hand vainly through his hair.  Kirk laughed, and reached for Spock’s shoulder.

“As in, thoughtful,” Spock corrected himself, upon feeling the warmth of his captain’s touch.

“Sure,” the other two said, at once.  Although their tones were completely different, Spock gathered the same meaning from each. 

_Pleased as men,_   
_With men to dwell_


	15. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help I forgot how to write fluff.

Sulu did not intend to yawn noticeably.  He tucked his face into his shoulder, and tried to be quiet. 

Chekov noticed, and giggled.

“What?” he returned his hands to the controls, “Don’t pretend like _you_ never get bored.”

The ensign could not compose a response, before Captain Kirk interrupted:

“End of your shift, Mister Sulu?”

He yawned again, while Chekov watched with wide, jealous eyes.

“Nearly, Sir.”

“Why don’t you call it a night?”

Sulu glanced smugly at Chekov, who immediately rehearsed his own yawning pattern, and rubbed his eyes with one sleeve.

“Thank you, Captain,” Sulu stood and resigned the controls to their automatic setting. 

“Vhere are you going?” Chekov asked, turning dramatically in his seat.

Although it was rare for Sulu and Chekov to have entire off-shifts overlapping, they liked to meet whenever possible.  Usually, they would share a meal, compare their somehow distinct versions of the day, and make completely pointless wagers.

“Just like we said yesterday,” Sulu shrugged, “I’ve got decorating to do.”

In the background, Kirk smiled.

“ _Vhere_?”

Warmly, Sulu tapped the ensign’s shoulder.

“You’ll find me.”

* * *

 

Sulu had been gone no more than ten minutes.  Chekov turned his head toward the lift every time he heard the doors opening, and even a few times when it was unoccupied. 

“Anxious, Mister Chekov?” the captain asked.

“No, Sir.”

“Bored?”

He was silent, but his nodding betrayed him.  He did not intend it to be detectable, but could hear the captain chuckling.

“Why don’t you go and find Mister Sulu, and then come back to finish your shift?”

“Of course, Keptin.  Vhatever you’d like.”

“Go on, Mister Chekov.  I think we can manage without you for five minutes.”

“Five meenutes!” laughed Chekov, already summoning the lift, “Zat is not enough time to search ze whole ship.”

“I have a feeling you know where to look,” Kirk noted, as the turbo-lift sealed.  Chekov accepted this as a challenge.

Mostly out of habit, Chekov stepped from the lift as it reached the floor of his cabin.  He shrugged and scolded himself as he dashed toward his room, confident Sulu would _not_ be there. 

After glancing quickly into his empty room, he completed his circle to the turbo-lift.  Sulu’s quarters, next.  He counted each elapsing second, and glared at the floors that flickered past.

He ran in another circle, upon finding Sulu’s room dark and quiet. 

It was always the third choice.

Sulu was waiting in his garden-room, sprinkling water over a hesitant pot of poinsettias.

“They didn’t let you go, too?” he started, baring glancing up.  Chekov stood and panted in the entryway.

“Not for long,” said Chekov, “But I vanted to know vhere to meet you.”

“…Here.”

Sulu set down the dish of water, and dried his fingers on his uniform.

“But ze… ze food!”

The lieutenant took his time in answering, enjoying the look of panic Chekov so rarely displayed.

“We don’t _have_ to do dinner.”

Chekov stepped forward, quickly and nervously.  The doors attempted to close, nudging his shoulder.

He stood reluctantly in the room.

“I must return to ze Bridge,” he said, over and over.  The door eventually opened, while Sulu watched and laughed.

“Sure you do,” he said, “I’ll bring us dinner, Mister Chekov.  And then we can finish decorating.”

“Zis is a promise?” he spun to face him, still preparing to speed back toward the lift.

“I believe it’s called a ‘date.’”

_We’ll face unafraid_   
_The plans that we’ve made,_   
_Walking in a winter wonderland._


	16. Do You Hear What I Hear?

“Captain?” called Uhura, tapping her headset, “We are receiving a message from the base on _Aristotle IX_.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, “On speaker.”

They heard only static.  Frustrated, Uhura shook her head.

“I can hear it just fine, Sir,” she said, “I’ll get you a transcript.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he repeated, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She nodded, mostly focused on the incoming message.  Eagerly, she copied each word as it was spoken.  The finished tablet was presented to the captain, who shrugged.

“Then it isn’t _bad_ news?”

“No, Sir.”

She read it over his shoulder, checking to ensure she could follow his eyes and match his pace.

“Yes,” he began, resting his face on one hand, “Tell them we’ll be ready for whatever festivities they have in mind.  And confirm dress code, please, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, Sir.”

He smiled, returning the tablet to Uhura’s hands.

“Did you have something in mind?  Some activity or tradition to add to their list?”

She considered it as she approached her workstation.

“I can’t think of any at the moment, Sir.  Oh!” she set down the tablet, inspired, “Sulu mentioned one to me… I’ll have to ask him.  Hasn’t Mister Spock been researching it?”

He peered at the scientist’s station, temporarily unattended.

“Yes, he has…” he stood, “I’ll go and check with him, then.  Maintain course, Mister Chekov.”

“Yes, Keptin.”

* * *

 

Before he reached Spock’s quarters, he was derailed by a friendly voice.

“Jim!” called McCoy, “Haven’t seen you all day…”

They turned, simultaneously dictated by habit, and proceeded toward Sickbay.

“What can I do for you?”

He glanced over his shoulder, and considered turning around.

“I needed to see Spock, actually… they’re looking for Christmas ideas for the star-base.”

The doctor nodded, slowly.

“I’ll go with you” he said, “I’m heading that way.”

“Really, you are?”

They both shrugged as they turned around.

Spock was silently attempting meditation when they arrived in the doorway.

“Captain,” he said, glancing up, “Doctor…”

“I just have a few questions, Spock,” the captain said, sitting at the chair across from him, “I hate to bother you.”

“Your superstition relies on an emotional response, Captain.  What do you wish to ask?”

“I’m short of Christmas party ideas,” his eyes crinkled when he chuckled, “We need something to suggest to the base.”

The Vulcan pressed his hands together, and folded up his fingers. 

“I believe it would be beneficial,” he began, staring only at his hands, “for me to relay that information to you as efficiently as possible.”

McCoy rolled his eyes, muttering about Spock’s conversational skills.

“How would that be?” posed Kirk.

“You are aware of the Vulcan mind-meld technique…”

“Yes.”

At the captain’s motion, McCoy positioned another chair beside the desk.  Finally, Spock looked up at them, in short intervals.  He held one hand toward Kirk, who shrugged and leaned in to meet it.  The other was offered to McCoy, who accepted it with a troubled sigh.

Both tried to focus on the words Spock used, but neither could hear correctly.  Instead, their minds blurred and bled together, gently directed by Spock’s fingers.

Only the Vulcan could determine which thoughts and memories belonged to each man before him.  They were overwhelmed.

_A swirl of snow, dusting rows of corn-fields.  Sweaters and scarves, made to match.  A cup of coffee, sitting outside on a padded armrest.  Gifts wrapped in neatly-cut paper, meticulously prepared._

Spock accepted these, copying them from his friends’ expressions.  The memories were traded for new information, subject of his research.  Professional activities, fit for the crew.

_Gift exchanges,_ he presented, _with recipients selected at random._

_Bowls of a beverage called ‘punch.’_  He did not admit his lack of understanding concerning the name.  It could not be found in the library records.

_Selecting and decorating a specific type of pine tree._

This connected, unintentionally, with McCoy:

_They saw a little girl stretching to reach the top of the tree.  In both hands, she held a metal casting of a star, and struggled with its weight.  She was hoisted onto shrugging shoulders, and able to reach the highest branch.  She smiled and hummed, delighted._

Spock removed his hand from Kirk’s face, allowing the captain to lean back and draw in a sharp breath. 

“Thank you, Spock,” he began, “I think we might be –”

He paused, upon seeing the continued connection.  McCoy’s eyes were wide open, as they always were in such situations, but brushed with tears.  Spock appeared troubled, and rearranged his fingers before letting go.

_There is a custom on Earth, in your country.  When two people stand beneath a parasitic plant – mistletoe – they kiss, by the human definition,_ Spock presented, to divide the doctor’s sorrow, _I believe you would be fond of this tradition, Doctor, based on my knowledge of you._

He set his hand on the table, ashamed of his interference.  He hoped this proposition was not entirely false.

McCoy coughed, and stared at Kirk.

“Emotional transference,” said Spock.

The doctor was still and quiet, allowing Kirk to pat his shoulder.

Over the intercom, Uhura called for Captain Kirk.  He accepted the message on Spock’s console, refusing to leave the room.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve confirmed the details with the base, Captain,” she said sweetly, “Dress uniforms, after landing.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.  Are we still on schedule?”

Sulu’s voice joined hers:

“So far, so good, Captain.”

“Good.  Kirk out.”

_Do you see what I see?_   
_A star, a star:_   
_Dancing in the night,_   
_With a tail as big as a kite._   
_With a tail as big as a kite._


	17. The Holly and the Ivy

“This one’s new,” observed Yeoman Rand, setting down the tray, “Does he have a name?”

Sulu glanced up, through flowers and leaves of every size and color.  Rand was always observant when she stopped by the garden, to bring Sulu his meals.  He often stayed there longer than she deemed healthy, without remembering to eat.

He stood to meet her, and tapped the leaves on the newest plant.

“ _She’s_ been here awhile.  _This_ is the new arrival.”

Rand did not notice that this display housed two plants.  Sulu separated the leaves into layers, and showcased a selection of pale grey ovals.

“Mistletoe,” he said, “Uhura asked for it.”

“That’s a horrible name for a plant,” Rand decided, “Or for anything.”

“You don’t have to call her that.”

Rand grinned, stole a cube of food from the tray, and sat down in front of the mistletoe.

“Where’d you find her?” she brushed her fingers gently over one branch, “Uhura said it’s _ancient_.”

“It is… had to have it replicated.  It’s not one-hundred-percent accurate,” he admitted, “the leaves are the wrong color.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

Sulu reached for a piece of the fruit just as Rand did.  She smiled and chose a different one.

“What does Uhura want it for?” she asked, staring at the replicated leaves, and trying to construct Uhura’s face in their veins.

“It’s for the party, I think.  The captain mentioned it, too.  And Doctor McCoy.”

“I didn’t think it would be so popular… _I’ve_ never heard of it.”

Sulu shrugged.

“I don’t know too much about it, either.  There’s some other plants I know more about…”

“Like what?”

He smiled.

“I’ll show you.”

Rand followed him to the table in the center of the room.  He opened a drawer, revealing a case of neatly labelled plants.

“Holly,” Rand read, “Now _that’s_ a nice name.”

“Take a piece with you,” proposed Sulu, “It matches your uniform much better than it matches mine.”

She wove a piece into her hair, checking her reflection in a glass cabinet. Sulu held out another, which she took without looking.  Once she finally exhaled, declaring the work done, Sulu had passed her exactly fourteen trimmings of holly.  She reached for another.

“It’s for a friend,” she said.

Sulu handed her the entire case, playfully complaining that he would need to grow more in time for Christmas.

“But you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

He nodded, as she approached the door.

“I’ll tell the captain not to expect you back any time soon.”

“Perfect.”

_The Holly and the Ivy,_   
_When they are both full grown,_   
_Of all the trees that are in the wood,_   
_The Holly bears the crown._


	18. Thankful

Gently, Kirk set down the tablet he had been reading from.

“Thank you for your report, Mister Spock.  It was… more thorough than I expected.”

“I merely wished to follow your instructions, Captain.  If you would like a summary, it can be found—.”

“In the following message, yes, I saw that.”  He switched the tablet off, “I don’t think I could run this ship without you, Mister Spock.”

McCoy, yawning and composing his own required reports at the other table, look up.  He was eager for distraction, and entertainment.

Spock accepted this with a nod.

“That is a logical assumption, Captain.”

“You don’t seem very humble today,” nudged McCoy.  Kirk’s eyes gave a warning, which was lenient and easily ignored.

“No, Doctor, I am being factual.  As you are.”

He rolled his eyes, while Kirk grinned and scooted forward in his chair.

“I wish there was a more logical way to express my gratitude,” he said, sincerely. 

Spock lifted one eyebrow:

“As do I, Captain.  I often forget that your human confidence is temporary.”

They were quiet, while Kirk cornered the suggestion in his mind.

“Is it,” he searched for the word, “permanent, for Vulcans?”

“I’d say so,” offered McCoy, to a preemptive ‘shh!’ from the captain.

“You continue demonstrating my theory, Doctor.”

“Alright,” muttered Kirk, realizing his mistake, “I’ll have to think of a different way to thank you.”

_Hot chocolate_ , thought McCoy.  Spock sensed this but did not respond.  Instead, he turned gradually to face the captain, and set one hand on the table.

“That will not be necessary,” Spock said.

“Interesting way to say ‘you’re welcome,’” grinned Kirk.

“Don’t worry about it, Spock,” McCoy translated the captain’s meaning perfectly.

Spock remained quiet for the rest of their evening together, watching the captain sort through message tapes and listening to the doctor skid the stylus absently over the desktop.  With his hands thoughtfully restrained and clasped together, he thought of a superior way to express the concept of ‘thanks’.  He drew samples of inspiration from the others’ absent minds.

He may have scratched too deep within the captain’s memory; Kirk glanced up sharply, as if awoken by a splash of icy water.

“I don’t think I could run this ship without you,” he said slowly.

“Thanks,” said McCoy, still focused on his work.

“You either, Bones.”

_Even with our differences_   
_There is a place we're all connected_   
_Each of us can find each other's light_


	19. Let it Snow

Spock decided, in his own definition, that it was ‘necessary to reciprocate gratitude.’  His solution took precedence over sleep, when he finally returned to his own cabin. 

He took his stack of attempted cards to a replicating machine, and tore them into precise strips. 

The color would not be correct, nor would the texture.  He recalled an earth saying of which the captain was fond: _it’s the thought that counts_.

Spock _had_ thought about this.  More than once, and backed it with research and a sleepless night.  That, he felt, would ‘count.’

* * *

 

Kirk spun in his chair on the bridge, glancing quickly between Spock and Uhura’s stations.

“Lieutenant,” he decided, “Call for Mister Spock, and have him report here immediately.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“I don’t think he’s _ever_ been late,” Kirk continued, face wrinkled with worry, “Ever.”

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” McCoy said, from his post behind the chair, “And he knows you’ll forgive him.”

Swiftly, Uhura altered switches and dials on her console.

“He’s not in his quarters, Sir,” she said, holding her earpiece, “Shall I switch to the intercom?”

As Kirk dismissively waved his hand, he noticed a fleck of grey, slowly settling on the floor.  He glanced up, and saw others following from the vents above.

Doctor McCoy studied Kirk, first, before deciding to follow his gaze.  Kirk’s hand was drawn to his side, and folded blankly over the armrest.  Several specks collected in the creases on his uniform.

He nodded.

“Intercom should do it, Lieutenant.  Call for Scotty, too.”

“Yes, Captain.  Switching to intercom now.”

A light flashed on the panel of the captain’s chair.

“Engineering to Captain Kirk.”

“Kirk here, Scotty.  Are you on your way to the Bridge?”

“I will be, Captain, once I get the air vents figured out.”

The captain watched the sprinkling of grey, as it proceeded.  Uhura brushed the debris form her hair, and sent a wave of it fluttering from her station, with a steady breath.  Most settled again on the desk, leaving watery trails behind them.

“I think we may be having the same problem,” Kirk said slowly, “Do what you can.”

“Aye, Sir,” Scotty said, “Y’know I will.”

“Is it… dangerous?”

“That depends what it is, Captain, but it’s not blocking the airflow and that’s all I’m concerned with.”

“Alright, Scotty, thank you.  Kirk out.”

He sat and stared straight forward; the viewing screen did not indicate anything unusual.  Mister Sulu verified that they were still on their course to the starbase.

“Theories?” the captain presented to all of his officers, with waiting hands.

Spock emerged from the lift, nodding once at Uhura before stepping up to his station.  He picked up a sample of the grey paper and rubbed it between his fingers.

“Now, if you just call that ‘fascinating,’” McCoy began, “I’ll—”

“Gentlemen,” Spock said, as Kirk prepared to repeat his question directly, “I had hoped the human concept of ‘imagination’ would present this to you as _snow_.  I see now that my _theory_ , Captain, was incorrect.”

Kirk’s smile was thin and thoughtful.

“Snow?”

Lieutenant Uhura giggled, and cupped some of the false snow between both hands, marveling at the cold sensation.

“I’ve never seen snow!” she exclaimed, “Is it real, Mister Spock?”

Chekov was unconcerned with the answer, and immediately prepared a snowball, which he displayed tauntingly before Sulu.

“It is real in that it exists,” Spock recited, “But it is not pure water.”

“I wish you would’ve given me a warning, Mister Spock,” Kirk presented, playfully, “I think I’ve got Scotty worried half to death.”

“From what I understand, Captain, it is not customary to reveal the identities of gifts, prior to their reception.”

“Well,” McCoy said, folding his arms, “A gift from a Vulcan?”

“That _is_ what the current situation would suggest, Doctor.”

 Kirk stood and paced around the perimeter of the room, watching the childish delight as it spread between crewmen.

“Not all of Earth sees snow, Mister Spock,” he said lightly, stopping at Uhura’s station.  She was attempting to copy Chekov’s flawless snowballs, but was much slower, and let it melt between her fingers.  Fragments of the paper remained behind, forming a soggy glove.

Once the captain returned his focus to Uhura, McCoy nudged Spock’s shoulder.  The Vulcan turned to face him, as he held up a handful of snow.

“I hope these aren’t all your Christmas cards,” he said.

“Replicated versions, Doctor.”

“Then you didn’t tear up the real ones?”

“The human dependency on the word ‘real’, Doctor, is fatiguing.  It was necessary to tear the _original_ cards before beginning the replication process.”

“But you need one to send home, Spock,” he dropped the wad of paper, and wiped his hands together, “I’m not letting you off this ship without one.”

“As you are well aware, I do not require shore leave.”

“I’ll send it for you,” he said, “I promise.”

Spock nodded, trapped in agreement, as the captain turned to rejoin them.

“A… thoughtful gift, Spock.  It’ll be hard for the rest of us to follow.”

“When’ve you got it scheduled to switch off?” McCoy asked.

The captain chuckled.                                                                                                 

_Well it doesn’t show signs of stopping,_   
_And I’ve brought some corn for popping._   
_The lights are turned way down low,_   
_Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!_


	20. Mistletoe and Holly

Chekov glared up at Sulu, as he finished fastening the mistletoe to the doorway.  They stood before the canteen, letting people stare.

“That’s the last piece,” Sulu said, gesturing at the twists the ensign held.  He shrugged, as a confused crewman passed, and gave it to Sulu.

“I zhink ze whole ship has seen us.”

“No matter.”

“No matter?  Zis is mistletoe, yes?”

“Yes.  The captain wanted more decorations up, and Uhura’s out of fabric.”

“You do not know vhat zis is?”

Sulu stepped down from the borrowed chair, and admired his work before answering:

“I’ve just told you what it is.”

Chekov took a dramatic, sweeping step backward.  As Sulu approached, he shoved him away.

“ _What_?”

“I don’t zhink ve should both stand under it.”

“Oh, come on,” Sulu said, “I bet your corps tricked you on this one.  It just means you can’t go in the room.  This one’s just for decoration, anyway.”

Yeoman Rand arrived, remarking about the unfortunate name.  She still wore her woven crown of holly.

“But it looks nice,” she offered, “I feel like I’m back home.”

“You use zis at home, on Earth?” Chekov verified.

“No,” she said, “Just seems right.”

Sulu traded them proud and thankful glances.

Uhura was next to arrive at the canteen, with a single sprig of holly pinned into her hair.  She emerged with a tray of coffee, which the others gratefully took.  In order to see the mistletoe, she had to stand on her tiptoes.  Sulu offered to bring her a chair to stand on, which she declined.

“It looks wonderful,” she beamed.

Rand stepped forward, saying, “We’re not so bad at this, after all.”  Chekov held her shoulder, preventing her from standing directly beneath the decoration.

“Hmm?” she turned, and playfully batted his arm away, “What’s your problem?”

“Only one person should stand under it at a time,” he advised.

Rand stepped back and stared at it.  Uhura joined her.  Everyone was quiet, between sips of coffee.

“It’s an Earth superstition,” Sulu explained, “But Chekov’s got it wrong.”

“Got it _wrong_?” he laughed, setting his mug on Uhura’s tray, “Never!”

Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel appeared next, on a casual walk through the corridor.

“That’s nice,” the doctor said, from behind the crowd, “Mistletoe.”

Chekov turned, nudging Sulu’s shoulder.

“ _He_ knows vhat it is,” he whispered, “And _he’ll_ agree vith me.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s _right_ ,” Sulu said, intending to challenge Chekov. 

The ensign slid toward McCoy, offering him a cup of coffee.

“You have seen zis before,” he said, leaning closer, “You know about it.”

McCoy did not recall using it at home; he never had.  His knowledge was limited, based only on the memory Spock placed earlier.

“I don’t know exactly when it started,” he admitted, “or where… but it’s a human thing.”

“And two people should not stand under it at ze same time…?”

“Well, I don’t see why not.”

“But zhey… zhey must—”

“Must what?” Chapel asked gently.  Uhura leaned in, equally intrigued.

“Kiss,” McCoy said, looking at the ground.

Sulu adopted disbelief, rather than disappointment.

“You said we _shouldn’t_ both stand under it!” he said, shoving Chekov into the doorway.

“I… vhat is the vord?  I misspoke.”

The entire group crowded into the doorway, giggling.

Unsure of the captain’s approval, they substituted human kisses for Vulcan ones, passed around the circle like an electric current.

They decided that someone should tell Spock, but made no nominations.

_Oh by gosh, by golly._   
_Time for mistletoe and holly._   
_Folks stealing a kiss or two,_   
_As they whisper ‘merry Christmas’ to you._


	21. Up on the Rooftop

The doors to the engine room opened, and the captain stepped through them.

Before turning to greet him, Scotty switched off the hologram he was working on.

“Captain,” he smiled, “what can I do for ya?”

“It’s the other way around today, Scotty.”

“How do ya mean?”

“I’m a little late, but I’m compiling Christmas lists,” Kirk explained, “What… _gifts_ did you have in mind?”

His hands settled fondly over the controls, as he gave his answer:

“I don’t think I could be any happier than I am now, Captain.  She’s a good ship with a great crew.”

Kirk gave a gentle, agreeing sort of nod.

“Then, something for all your hard work.”

“Aye,” he breathed, “I see what ya mean, Captain, but I think I’ve got all the tools I need, as well.”

Kirk glanced at the panel which controlled the hologram.  Scotty’s tools and blueprints were scattered nearby.

“What are you working on right now?”

“Nothin’ much, Sir,” he reached to cover the schematics, “It was Mister Alexander’s idea.”

“His gift for the crew?” Kirk confirmed, to Scotty’s reluctant nod, “He told me about it, last time I passed him in the hall.”

“Surely he didn’t give it away…?”

“Oh no; he didn’t say what it was.  Just that it would work in every crewman’s cabin.”

Proudly, Scotty grinned.

“He’s a good lad.  I said I’d finish it up for him, since he wasn’t sure what to do.”

“Is there anything that might make that easier?”

Scotty considered this, as the captain leaned against the nearest ladder.  He listed several tools, which Kirk was not entirely familiar with, but promised to acquire during their stop at the starbase.

He then left the friendly room, with Scotty calling, “thank you, Sir!” after him.

The captain’s thoughts were content, all through the evening.  He returned to his cabin, and considered his crew to be the best gift of all.

_Here is a hammer, and lots of tacks._   
_Also a ball, and a whip that cracks._


	22. Carol of the Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow short chapters, lately. I'm lazy, sorry D=

Uhura studied her handful of meal-tapes, as she stood before the lonely replicator. 

“Can I get you something?” Yeoman Rand entered the room with her own collection of tapes, which the women compared.

“If you want,” shrugged Uhura, “I just can’t wait to have a real Christmas dinner!”

“At the starbase?” Rand confirmed, inputting a tape for cakes and coffee.

“Oh, yes.  Dress uniforms and everything.”

Rand shrugged:

“Mine’s nothing special.  Some extra ribbon on the collar is all, I think.”

With their trays, they moved to a table and sat across from one another. 

“Can’t remember the last time I wore mine,” Uhura added, “Whenever we last had the Andorian delegates on… it must’ve been at _least_ a year ago.”

The yeoman set down her cup and eagerly stood.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

Uhura nodded, and resigned herself to a quiet meal.  Before Rand returned, she refilled both mugs.

“You brought a friend,” mused Uhura.  Rand arrived, holding a silver crate, with Nurse Chapel following behind.

“Our uniforms, more importantly.”

She set down the box, and took their stacked uniforms from the top.  Then, while Uhura gave an approving smile, she spread a spectrum of threads, jewels, and strips of fabric on the table.  Chapel took the seat beside the lieutenant, who rushed to prepare a third beverage.  Tea with honey.

All three smiled, quietly staring at the unfolding project.

“I’ve never sewn a thing in my life,” Rand offered, reaching for a shimmery swatch of green fabric.

Chapel agreed, forgetting to mention the ancient surgical techniques the Academy taught her. 

“I’ll show you,” Uhura promised, finding a packet of needles and distributing them to her students. 

In the end, Uhura proved to do the most actual sewing.  Rand sorted through the materials and found creative ways to use the ‘prettier’ ones – Christmas trees cut from the green fabric, stars made from white circles, and square patches attached to represent gift boxes.  Ranks and divisions were shown there, based on the box color and the ribbons tied in careful bows on top.  Chapel spent the evening fitting stretchy bands to the tops of their boots, then pinning jingling bells to each one.  Uhura promised to sew these on properly, when time permitted.

“And it’s all regulation,” Rand said, holding her finished piece up to admire, “Ranks and everything.”

“I don’t think they’ll like the tree pattern,” offered Uhura, with a giggle.

“Oh, but the captain will,” Chapel nodded.

“We’ll wear them the day _before_ we all beam down, then,” Rand decided, “Just to double-check.”

“Should we decorate other uniforms, too?” Chapel began, “As gifts?”

“I don’t see why not,” Uhura said.

They listed their shipmates, and divided responsibilities evenly.

“I’ll need another box,” Rand said, gesturing at the leftovers on the table. 

“Two,” said Uhura.

“ _Three_ ,” said Chapel.

“And a lot more coffee,” Rand promised, as she stood.

_Hark how the bells,_   
_Sweet silver bells,_   
_All seem to say:_   
_Throw cares away._


	23. We Three Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why hello, unintentional Spones.

Spock was placed in charge of the plans and timing.  At the captain’s request, he rearranged crew schedules, modified the autopilot systems, and dimmed the lights throughout the ship – all to imitate a wintry evening on Earth.  All crewmen were specifically ordered to bed, leaving Kirk time and privacy to fill their stockings with presents. 

On their walk to meet the captain, McCoy caught Spock staring at the mistletoe which dangled over the canteen entrance.  

“I am familiar with the tradition, Doctor,” Spock said, preemptively.

With a smirk, McCoy held out two fingers and waited for Spock to meet them.  The brief touch was followed by an immediate vow of silence, from both parties.

Kirk met them, already standing beneath the stockings with their contributions.

“Got all I could from my list,” Kirk said, setting down his box, “Where would you like to start?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” McCoy said, shrugging at the bins of Hypos he and Spock carried over.  Each stocking would receive one.

They started at one end of the corridor, furthest from the lift, with Spock passing Hypos up to McCoy while Kirk tried to match items to names. 

The lift doors opened, overshadowing their whispered conversation.

All three turned simultaneously, to find Uhura.

“Did you want some help?” she asked, to the captain’s gentle refusal, “I just thought – well, I’m too excited to fall asleep – so I wanted to help out if…”

“Noted, Lieutenant,” Kirk said, “I think we can handle it.”

She smiled and agreed to return to her cabin, without ‘peeking’ – as the captain put it – at any of her presents.

“Did you just bring the Hypos, Bones?” Kirk asked, once Uhura had left them.

“That and the tapes,” he said, “For apple cider or hot chocolate.”

Kirk noted the two different colors, slipped into each stocking.

“A… surprisingly logical gift,” he decided.

McCoy shrugged.

“Someone needs to, to balance the trinkets you’re putting in there.”

“Trinkets,” Kirk said fondly, slipping a pair of earrings into Uhura’s stocking.

Chekov was next to interrupt them; he waited behind them, rubbing his eyes.

“Can I help you, Ensign?” Kirk offered, standing purposely in front of his stocking. 

“No, Keptin.  I always go for a valk before bed.”

“You were _specifically_ ordered to bed at _least_ an hour ago,” said Kirk, “Your walk seems a bit late to me.”

“I am not tired, Keptin.  I should just be starting my shift.”

“Go on walking then, Ensign.”

Chekov stared at them each in turn, but none offered an excuse.  He sighed and continued his alleged journey, staring over his shoulder while the others returned to packing.

“What did you bring, Spock?” Kirk asked, after yawning and deciding not to check the time.

“I assisted Doctor McCoy in carrying the Hypos,” he answered, “As Nurse Chapel was not permitted to do so.”

The captain tried not to demonstrate disappointment.  Spock continued:

“In addition, I have recorded summaries of important Christmas information from the ship’s library, and can provide it to any crewmen who request it.”

“That’s fine, Mister Spock,” Kirk said, “Thank you.”

By now, the box of Hypos was nearly empty.  Kirk had already distributed his gifts – some substituted with notes about the promised item – and watched as Spock and McCoy sorted through the vials.  There was no reason for him to finish his tasks before they did, but he found one regardless:

Spock would hold up each Hypo, between two fingers, which McCoy’s hand invariably lingered over.  Kirk smiled, and stepped closer.

“Mister Spock,” he began, “pass me a Hypo.”

_Star of wonder,_   
_Star of night,_   
_Star with royal beauty bright,_   
_Westward leading,_   
_Still proceeding,_   
_Guide us to thy perfect light._


	24. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

“We’re right on schedule, Sir,” Sulu said, as the captain stood behind him, “Estimated to arrive on _Aristotle IX_ within twenty-four hours.”

“Very good, Mister Sulu,” he replied, adjusting the collar of his dress uniform, “Take your time.”

“Aye, Sir.  Enabling autopilot now.”

Aside from Kirk and Sulu, the Bridge was unoccupied.  By now, the artificial snow had ‘melted’, leaving shreds of paper in hastily-swept piles around the controls. 

In the largest of the recreation rooms, Kirk had organized a gathering, as he knew the families on Earth did for such occasions.  Uhura, Rand, and Chapel promised surprises earlier in the day, as they directed each crew member to the uniform room. 

Sulu and Kirk arrived, retrieving their stockings on the way.  Most of the wall was cleared, as the others were already in attendance.

“Merry Christmas, Captain!” most said, as they entered.  Sulu echoed this to him quietly, before leaving to find friends in the crowd. 

First, Kirk sought out Lieutenant Uhura, to thank her for the additions to his uniform.  She promised to pass the kind words on to the others, after trying her skill at decorating cookies.

“Cookies?” Kirk confirmed, to Uhura’s eager nod.

“Mister Spock had them made for everyone, from the replicator.”

“Mister Spock did?”

“Aye, Sir.”

He took a cup from the table they leaned on, and sipped it.  Hot chocolate.

“I was just on my way to see him…”

“I understand, Sir,” she said, “Have a good night.”

“You too, Lieutenant.  Enjoy some hot chocolate, if you get the chance.”

The captain patted her shoulder before turning and weaving through the crowd.  He felt obligated to speak with everyone who stopped him, and sighed when he finally found Spock, standing quietly by the replicator.

“Any good?” Kirk grinned and grabbed a cookie from the neat stack.

“According to more than fifty percent of crewmen,” said Spock, “but I have not eaten one.”

“Here,” nudged Kirk, “We’ll split it.”

He snapped the cookie roughly in half, and counted down so they would begin eating simultaneously.

“It is not _un_ pleasant,” Spock decided.

As Kirk composed a compliment, Doctor McCoy joined them.  Nurse Chapel had a friendly arm looped through his, and was careful in stepping away and levelling two drinks.

“Punch,” she said, presenting one to Spock, “And there’s no chocolate in it.”

“Thank you,” he paused and considered her expression.  It was hopeful, “Christine.”

“Cheers,” Kirk said, then McCoy.  All four glasses were tapped together.

During their conversation, Scotty stopped by.  Alexander found them shortly afterward.

“Just wanted to find ya before I called it a night,” Scotty said, holding the captain’s shoulder, “Got a bit of work to get done.”

Kirk nodded, then leaned down to address Alexander:

“How’s your project coming along?”

“Oh, well… that’s why we’re leaving early.  I hope you don’t mind, Sir.”

“Gotta test a few things,” Scotty added.

“Good luck, then,” Kirk said, “I can’t wait to see it.”

Both engineers wove through the crowd and through the door.

The evening was pleasant, and filled with all the things Kirk expected – playful trading of gifts, shared stories, and plentiful refreshments.  Then, the Christmas tree.

Sulu explained it – at Chekov’s insistence – as it was unfolded in the center of the room.  The tree was grown from an actual sample of pine, rather than created artificially.  Uhura remarked about its beauty while Rand asked about its name.

“We’ll name her once she’s decorated,” Sulu explained, “That’ll give her more character.”

Some volunteered their empty stockings as ornaments, while others borrowed bells from their uniforms. 

“Doctor,” Spock insisted, “I believe you should accompany me to the corridor at this time.”

“What?  Why?”

Sulu produced a metallic star, and promised to help Uhura set it atop the tree, as she was not tall enough on her own.

Kirk looked briefly at Spock’s eyes, and understood his brief nod.  The captain stood to block McCoy’s view of the tree, and yawned.  He set down his mug of hot chocolate, nearly empty.

“I’ll bet you need some sleep, Jim,” McCoy said, already leading him toward the door, “Can’t imagine you got enough last night.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” he offered, once they were sheltered in the quiet corridor.  The three officers walked in a straight line, with the captain in the center.

Although no one dictated a direction or destination, they arrived at Kirk’s cabin.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” McCoy said, “Goodnight.”

Spock repeated the condolence, while the doors shut.

_Through the years,_   
_we all will be together,_   
_if the fates allow._   
_Hang a shining star,_   
_upon the highest bough._   
_And have yourself,_   
_a merry little Christmas now._


	25. Baby, It's Cold Outside

Kirk sat alone in his cabin, playing with the switches on the new panel Alexander installed. 

“Bridge to Captain Kirk,” the box on his desk said.

“Yes, Mister Sulu?”

“Entering standard orbit, Captain.”

“Have landing parties been assigned?”

“We drew names last night, Sir,” Sulu continued, “After you’d left… Lieutenant Uhura’s idea.”

“Very good, thank you.”

“Will you be beaming down right away, Sir?”

“No, I don’t think so… send the rest of my group ahead, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Thank you.  Kirk out.”

He returned his attention to the renovated panel, as he heard the doors open.  Doctor McCoy entered, and leaned against the wall to watch the captain work.

“Everyone’s healthy and clear to beam down,” he relayed, “Except one.”

“If you’re thinking about staying, I—.”

“Oh, no.  But he’ll be stopping by, too.”

“Well, that’ll save us from finding a volunteer to operate the transporter, at least.”

“You, you mean.”

“Yeah.  Have Mister Scott demonstrate all the necessary procedures before he leaves, so—.”

Spock joined them in the cabin, and waited until the doors were shut to speak.

“I think he knows, Jim.”

Kirk shrugged, while Spock passed his finished Christmas card to McCoy.

“As promised, Doctor,” he said.

“As promised, Mister Spock,” McCoy stepped toward the door, “Keep warm.”

Having given up on using the panel, Kirk moved to sit on his bed.  Quietly, Spock sat in the chair across from him.

“I take it you volunteered to stay behind, Mister Spock.”

“Although a logical assumption, this time I was medically inclined to remain on the ship.”

“’This time?’”

“I prefer other methods of ‘vacation’ to shore leave.  Also, _Aristotle IX_ is colder than I can safely compensate for.  Although Doctor McCoy offered a variety of temporary stimulants, these did not match our definition of ‘relaxing.’”

“You agreed on something?” Kirk decided to lay down, “And I missed it.”

“Your presence – although I enjoy it – is often what suggests our disagreements.”

Kirk nodded while he considered this.  Spock, having exhausted the required conversation, studied the panel.

“Haven’t figured it out yet,” Kirk said, watching.

“It appears to be voice-activated,” Spock observed, “ _On_.”

Several lights flashed, and the crisp image of a fireplace emerged on the facing wall.  Gradually, the image widened, adding a brick frame, metal tools, and a stack of pressed wood.

“Thank you, Spock.  It’s a good thing you stopped by.”

“It also seems to radiate heat,” Spock decided, scooting his chair closer.

“Even better.”

“Captain?”

Borrowing the blanket from his bed, Kirk slid a second chair beside Spock’s.  The fabric was thin, but designed to reflect heat.  Kirk spread it between them, and offered Spock one hand, slipped beneath it.

“I always forget,” Kirk said, as Spock cited his cooler body-temperature.

Gently, Kirk stroked the Vulcan’s hand.  He gave a content sigh when Spock finally reciprocated the gesture.  The movements were precise, and undeniably warm.

“Perfect,” Kirk said. 

His head found Spock’s shoulder, and was not refused, as they both contemplated the flames.

_I ought to say ‘No, Sir,’_   
_(Mind if I move in closer?)_   
_At least I’m gonna say that I tried._   
_(What’s the sense in hurting my pride?)_


End file.
